Truly Madly Deeply
by Somogyi
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?
1. Truly Madly Deeply Part 1

Title: Truly Madly Deeply 1/5  
Author: Somogyi  
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com  
Category: SRA  
Rating: R for language, adult situations  
Spoilers: Through Season Six  
Keywords: MSR, MS Married  
  
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.  
  
Author's Notes: This was first written around three years ago; I'm finally posting it now. Anyone who's read my first X-Files fanfic undertaking, "Blessed Union of Souls I: Not the Doctor," and its sequel, "BUOS II: Deep Water," may find the Hawaiian case that Scully recalls vaguely familiar. These stories can be found at http://nitid.org/somogi  Consider this story to take place in an alternate universe where Mulder never ditched Scully in NTD, and they got their happy ending a bit sooner.  
  
The opening lyrics and title are from a song by Savage Garden. You can find the complete lyrics at the end of the story.  
  
All comments and criticism welcomed at somogyi02@yahoo.com. Please let me know what you think.  
  
This one's for you, Mirage. Hope you like it.  
  
  
****  
  
  
Truly Madly Deeply  
by Somogyi  
somogyi02@yahoo.com  
  
  
Part 1  
  
  
               I want to stand with you on a mountain,  
               I want to bathe with you in the sea.  
               I want to lay like this forever,  
               Until the sky falls down on me...  
  
  
The blaring sound of the clock radio yanks me from peaceful slumber. Reluctantly, I reach over to the nightstand and switch off the alarm. I don't even open my eyes; my fingers have completed this ritual hundreds of times in the past, and know it well. With a sigh, I roll over and reach out my arm, hoping to spoon against the warm body that lies beside me and savor a few more minutes of toasty comfort before having to greet the cool morning air of a new day.  
  
But my arm falls to the mattress, coming up empty.  
  
"Mulder . . . ?" I mumble, hand reaching out and groping the unoccupied space. My fingers feel the cotton pillowcase; it's cool to the touch.  
  
My eyes shoot open and I sit up quickly, panic jarring me awake. I'm alone in the bed. The space beside me looks untouched.  
  
"Mulder?" I call out, more urgently.  
  
I scan the room, realize it's not our bedroom. Disoriented, I reach toward the nightstand for my gun. Then, suddenly, I remember.  
  
I'm away on business. An out-of-town case. Pennsylvania. This is my hotel room.  
  
With a relieved sigh, I sink back against the pillows and rake my fingers through my hair.  
  
*For God's sake, Dana, you're getting to be as paranoid as he is! What would Mulder say?*  
  
"Rubbin' off on you, huh, Scully?" he'd ask with that sly grin of his.  
  
"What do you mean 'on'?" I'd reply matter-of-factly, with the apathetic tone I'd use to quote a scientific fact.  
  
He'd raise an eyebrow then, a mocking gesture. But he wouldn't be able to maintain the cool indifference very long. His face would erupt into an enormous grin, the smile lighting his eyes.  
  
No matter how many times I do it, I don't think he'll ever get used to my answering his innuendo tit for tat, or sometimes even offering my own unsolicited. I love doing it, keeping him on his toes like that. It feels good after so many years of self-restraint, of forcing myself to maintain that professional distance in fear that if I were to give in, even just a little, he would devour me whole.  
  
It was a rightful apprehension, because the moment I succumbed to temptation, he did just that.  
  
And I wouldn't have had it any other way.  
  
I laugh, then, at my overreaction, at the absurdity of the entire situation. Not merely the fact that I feared the worst; nearly a decade as a federal agent--over half of those years spent investigating unusual phenomena and shadowy conspiracies--has turned me into a cynic, to say the least. Rather, it's more the idea of how quickly I've come to expect his presence each morning--even on a subconscious level.  
  
A little over a year ago, I wouldn't have given the prospect of sleeping alone a second thought. Now, however, the idea of not sharing my bed bothers me. And right now, I miss him dearly: The warmth of his body beside me. His scent on the sheets. The sound of his steady breathing. Or his low voice, still half-groggy with sleep, as he implores me for five more minutes of precious slumber. His strong arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me close to him, the stubble on his unshaven cheek softly rasping my skin as he gently nuzzles my neck.  
  
I've come to treasure these everyday events that most people tend to take for granted. Things like snuggling in bed, or watching television, or setting the table, or cleaning the house. It's these little things that I cherish, simply because we do them together, routinely. I've come to appreciate them. This is my way of giving thanks. Too many times we've almost lost these opportunities, too often we've almost lost one another. Now that we're finally together, I refuse to let another precious instant go to waste. Any moment spent apart, any moment without him, is a moment too many.  
  
It's funny, really. I've always considered myself an independent person. Ready, willing, and able to do things on my own, by myself, for myself. But while it's made me stronger, this forced seclusion has also left me lonely and incomplete. By never allowing myself to depend on another, I became isolated. I've hidden my inner feelings deep inside for fear that revealing them would make me weak, vulnerable.  
  
It was not until I met Mulder that I ever truly allowed myself to rely on another person. I've come to trust him as no other. And, in return, I've given him something I've never totally shared with anyone else: myself.  
  
I thought it would be difficult, this baring of the soul. I always thought it would be a struggle, to give myself over to another completely, to let him into my mind and my heart as easily as I let him into my body. Instead, it just seemed to happen of its own accord, a natural outgrowth of our partnership, our friendship, our love.  
  
And now that I finally have him, I can't seem to get enough. He's like a potent drug. A few hours apart, and it's time for another fix. Fox Mulder, my own personal narcotic.  
  
They say that working with your spouse isn't good for the relationship, that spending too much time together will suffocate you, kill the romance. It seems to hold the opposite effect for us. Not that we spend every minute of the day together; we don't work together nearly as closely as we used to. In fact, we still take separate cars to the office. And the office is no longer a dingy room in the basement: for Mulder, it's a bright, sun-filled room on the third floor of headquarters in DC; for me, it's a sizable room in the back of a lab in Quantico.  
  
That was the price we paid in order to become husband and wife. When we became involved, decided to make it official "public" knowledge, we knew that they'd split us up. That was the price we paid, in order to become husband and wife: One type of partnership exchanged for another. Years ago, the fear of being separated was one of the strongest reasons I resisted revealing my feelings for Mulder. By the time the dissolution of our professional partnership happened, though, I welcomed the change.  
  
We were at a point in our lives, our careers, where transition was necessary. At work, it came in the form of a promotion for both of us. The Bureau finally realized the importance of the X-Files, of the work we did. And so they wanted to expand the division, add more agents to investigate occurrences of unexplained phenomena.  
  
They made Mulder the Special Agent in Charge of the division. It's not completely an advisory position, though. They know him too well. Pushing paper alone would never be enough. He goes into the field often, when his expertise is required. He doesn't travel as much as we used to, but enough to satisfy his need for adventure.  
  
As for me, they created a new position: Scientific Liaison. In truth, it's a glorified consultant position. Most of my time is spent at Quantico, performing autopsies, teaching courses. I think they're grooming me to take over for the current head pathologist, an elderly man on the verge of retirement. In the meantime, whenever Mulder requests the aid of a forensic pathologist, they assign me. It takes a little juggling of my schedule, but I'm just so thankful that they accommodate us like this.  
  
They'd be fools not to. They've seen our files, they know our solve rate. When we're in sync—which is more often than not—we work together beautifully. Anticipating one another's thoughts, but also complementing one another. Intuition and logic. Skepticism and belief. Fire and ice. Yin and yang. Call it what you will, but we're damned good together, and they know it. We get them results, and they like that. And so they humor us. On about a quarter of his field cases, I get to tag along for at least part of the ride. Occasionally, I go solo, assisting some of his other agents. As I am today.  
  
These are always the toughest assignment, I find. And I don't mean the difficulty of the case. It's not having him here beside me that makes it hard. Not just in my bed--though, Lord knows, I miss that too. Rather, it's not being able to run a hypothesis past him as soon as I formulate it. It's not being able to argue a point, to try to discredit his wild theories all the while trying to defend my own more earth-bound ideas. I miss the intellectual debates, the mental gymnastics I have to go through to stay on my toes when working with Mulder.  
  
Sure, he's just a phone call away if I really need to ask his advice. But that's like eating Hershey's instead of Godiva. Satisfying, but nowhere near as delectable.  
  
Which is not to say I don't hit that speed dial on my cell whenever a legitimate excuse arises.  
  
Just last night, I sat in this bed after my bath, laptop open, files strewn about, phone cradled to my ear. He had called me for a change. To check on the progress of the investigation, to offer assistance however he was able. But also just to hear the sound of my voice. To tell me he missed me--though not in so many words, of course.  
  
"So the investigation's winding down, you think?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah. Agents Lehmann and Krick have got a warrant out for Laster. They should have him within the next twenty-four hours. I've just got to go into the field office tomorrow, finish up my report. I'm hoping to catch a flight out late tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"Give me a call when you know for sure. I'll pick you up from the airport."  
  
"That's okay, Mulder, I can just take a cab."  
  
"No big deal. I'm gonna be working late anyway."  
  
He does that a lot, whenever I'm out of town. Truth to tell, I do the same thing. Keeps our minds occupied. Less time to think about each other that way. You'd think they'd send us away on separate cases more often, the way it increases our efficiency with paperwork.  
  
"All right," I acquiesced, already looking forward to the warm embrace that would be greeting me back in DC.  
  
"So, those kids working out okay?" he asked. "Not giving you too much trouble?"  
  
Kids, huh? Is that what he thought of me, when I was assigned to work with him on the X-Files all those years ago? This pair of agents may be a little green, but they catch on fast. They'll do just fine.  
  
"They've got a lot of talent, Mulder. First-rate investigative work. Lehmann has a real knack for profiling. Really gets into people's heads. He's damn good--the best I've seen in a long time."  
  
"The best, huh?" There's an uncertainty in his words, an insecurity.  
  
Unbelievable. Even after all this time, Mulder still doubts my feelings. Despite my unwavering faith in him as an investigator, as a lover, a husband, he still worries.  
  
Not that I can blame him. He's lost so much. Just as I used to fear letting people in, so too has Mulder not allowed anyone to get too close. He's been burned too often.  
  
His trust isn't given easily. Which is why I value it so highly.  
  
I'm actually captivated by his vulnerability. It's one of the things that attracted me to him, all those years ago. It's a void I fill in him, just as he completes me. Together, we're greater than the sum of our parts.  
  
"Well, maybe not *the* best," I amended, assuaging his wounded psyche. Though I refused to give him a swelled head. At least, not when we're several states apart. "You're a tough act to follow, Mulder. Lehmann has a lot of catching up to do before he's on your level."  
  
"And just how do you know this, Scully?"  
  
"Call it women's intuition."  
  
"As long as it's just that: intuition."  
  
"What's wrong, Mulder? Jealous?"  
  
"And well I should be. You'd be surprised, Scully, how many men find that cool detachment and scientific lingo irresistible."  
  
"It's called maintaining an air of professionalism, Mulder. You should try it some time. And what's wrong with the way I speak?"  
  
"Nothing's wrong with it, Scully. Quite the contrary."  
  
"Are you saying my voice turns you on?"  
  
"Not the voice alone. It's how you use it. All those ten-dollar words you toss around. The ones with all those syllables."  
  
"As I recall, Mulder, you've got a pretty extensive vocabulary yourself."  
  
"I'll show ya mine if you show me yours." His tone was that of a child putting forth a dare.  
  
My thoughts at the moment, however, were anything but childlike. I decided to meet his challenge head on. I paused a moment, searching for the right word.  
  
"Sphygmomanometry," I offered.  
  
"Is that the best you can do?" he scoffed.  
  
"And I suppose you can do better?"  
  
"Psychokinesis," he parried.  
  
I sniggered. Okay, so I was just getting warmed up. "Gynecomastia."  
  
"Gymnosophist," he replied, barely missing a beat.  
  
"Tachypnea."  
  
"Transcendentalism."  
  
"Opisthotonus."  
  
"Carminative." I could hear the smile in his voice.  
  
Two can play at this game. "Diaphoresis."  
  
"Prestidigitation."  
  
I lowered my voice, uttered the word as a breathy whisper: "Hyperesthesia."  It took him a few moments to reply. He was trying to fight it. I knew that he could only resist so long. "Hyperborean," he said, his voice wavering slightly.  
  
"Nystagmus," I countered.  
  
"*Non compos mentis*," he pronounced, his voice heady.  
  
I remained silent, the seconds ticking by like eternities. I could tell he was holding his breath. Waiting. It was sweet torture for him, I was sure. I licked my lips, forming the word slowly:  
  
"Nymphomania."  
  
The breath whooshed out of his lungs.  
  
I smiled. It's empowering, this intense effect I have on him. As he does on me.  
  
"Scully?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What are you wearing?"  
  
I couldn't help but laugh. It's an old joke, a line of his that he likes to offer from time to time to ease tension--or to augment it--but it still made me tingle all over. "It's late, Mulder, I need to be in the field office early tomorrow."  
  
"Okay. Pleasant dreams, Scully."  
  
"You, too. Good night, Mulder."  
  
"Hey Scully?"  
  
I paused. I knew what was coming next. The anticipation nonetheless still sent a delicious shiver down my spine, no matter how many times I'd heard it before. "Mmm?" was all I could manage.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Unbidden, I felt the prickle of moisture welling in my eyes. We've been married over a year. God, how does he still have this effect on me? "I love you, too, Mulder."  
  
  
End Part 1  
  
  
****  
  
  
Author's Note for Part 1: In case you were considering looking up any of the words from M&S's little phone exchange, I thought I'd save you the trouble. Here are definitions from Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th ed. and Webster's Medical Desk Dictionary, 1993, listed in the order spoken.  
  
Sphygmomanometry: measurement of blood pressure by means of the sphygmomanometer, an instrument for measuring blood pressure and esp. arterial blood pressure  
  
Carminative: expelling gas from the alimentary canal so as to relieve colic or griping  
  
Gynecomastia: excessive development of the breast in the male  
  
Gymnosophist: any of a sect of ascetics in ancient India who went naked and practiced meditation  
  
Tachypnea: increased rate of respiration  
  
Transcendentalism: a philosophy that asserts the primacy of the spiritual and transcendental over the material and empirical  
  
Opisthotonus: a condition of spasm of the muscles of the back, causing the head and lower limbs to bend backward and the trunk to arch forward  
  
Psychokinesis: movement of physical objects by mind without the use of physical means  
  
Diaphoresis: perspiration, esp. profuse perspiration artificially induced  
  
Prestidigitation: sleight of hand  
  
Hyperesthesia: unusual or pathological sensitivity of the skin or of a particular sense to stimulation  
  
Hyperborean: a member of a people held by the ancient Greeks to live beyond the north wind in a region of perpetual sunshine  
  
Nystagmus: a rapidly involuntary oscillation of the eyeballs occurring normally with dizziness during and after bodily oration or abnormally after injuries  
  
*Non compos mentis*: not of sound mind  
  
Nymphomania: excessive sexual desire by a female  
  
  
***** 


	2. Truly Madly Deeply Part 2

Title: Truly Madly Deeply 2/5  
Author: Somogyi  
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com  
Category: SRA  
Rating: R for language, adult situations  
Spoilers: Through Season Six  
Keywords: MSR, MS Married  
  
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Truly Madly Deeply  
by Somogyi  
somogyi02@yahoo.com  
  
  
Part 2  
  
  
I glance over at the clock. Six twenty-three. Shit. How long have I been sitting here, daydreaming? I'm going to be late.  
  
I throw back the covers and jump out of bed, making a bee-line for the bathroom. I perform my morning ritual in record time. Washing, combing, dressing. A dash of make-up, and I'll be ready to go.  
  
For some reason, I can't find my lipstick. I rummage through my make-up case, but to no avail. Goddammit. In frustration, I dump the entire contents onto the bathroom countertop, shuffle the cosmetics around.  
  
I've just located the lipstick when something else catches my eye: a small, folded piece of paper. For a moment, I stare at it in confusion. Then I pick up the paper and unfold it.  
  
My lips quirk in a smile at the sight of the familiar block letters:  
  
"S--JUST BECAUSE. THINKING OF YOU. LOVE, M"  
  
Love. Such a simple word, four little letters. And yet it conveys so much. How long did it take me to be able to say that word, to try to express to him the true depth of my feelings for him?  
  
He told me once, years earlier. In a hospital room, no less. How very Mulder. At the time, I thought it was the result of his drug-induced giddiness. He'd been talking of time-travel and dopplegangers, of my saving the world and his fear of never seeing me again.  
  
I should've realized. From the way his eyes bored into me, the cloudy haze cast by the painkillers suddenly gone. From the set of his jaw, his shoulders. From the way he had to steel his nerve, gather his courage, take a deep breath before uttering the words.  
  
And what did I do in response? I rolled my eyes, uttered a hasty exclamation, and walked out, feigning exacerbation. Yes, feigning. At the time, I couldn't allow myself to react to his heartfelt declaration. I couldn't let him see how those three little words made my knees go weak, my heart pound, my insides turn to goo. So I walked away, faking indifference, when in truth my soul was singing. At that moment, I finally knew as fact what I could only hope in the past. And that knowledge sustained me.  
  
So what if it only took me well over a year to reciprocate?  
  
With a final glance, I refold the note and place it in my pocket. For safekeeping. But also to keep it close to me.  
  
I quickly apply the lipstick, grab my bag and keys, and head out the hotel door.  
  
Mulder's always doing little things like that. A flower waiting for me on my desk at work. Notes in unexpected places. Random voice mail messages. Just to say hi or I miss you or I'm thinking of you. There's no rhyme or reason. Not a holiday, not a birthday, nor an anniversary. No special occasion.  
  
I asked him once, why he does it. He thought about it a moment, head tilted to the side, deep thoughts creasing his brow, much as a child looks when pondering the mysteries of the universe.  
  
"Just because," he replied. "Because I can."  
  
  
****  
  
  
I meet Agents Krick and Lehmann in the Philadelphia field office, hoping to quickly wrap up the case and be back in D.C. in time for dinner. I'm greeted with bad news.  
  
Laster hasn't been apprehended yet. Worse still, there's another victim. Another crime scene to investigate. Another autopsy to be performed. Looks like I won't be making it home for dinner after all.  
  
I accompany the two agents to the crime scene. I try to offer them whatever assistance I can. The observations of a forensic pathologist, the intuition of an experienced field agent. We find a lead that points us in Laster's direction. Krick and Lehmann do the footwork while I head back to the lab to perform the autopsy.  
  
I'm in the locker room, changing into scrubs, when I realize I should probably let Mulder know that I won't be making it home tonight. I pull my cell phone from my coat pocket, hit the speed dial.  
  
"Mulder."  
  
"Mulder, it's me."  
  
"Hey Scully. You on your way to the airport already?"  
  
"Change of plans, I'm afraid. I've got another autopsy to perform."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
I quickly fill him in on the latest developments in the case. He listens intently, offers some advice on what the agents could do next.  
  
"They're already on it. See, Mulder, I told you that they're good."  
  
"You're not thinking of leaving me for Agent Lehmann, are you, Scully?"  
  
"Nah. He's not my type," I say, leaning against the row of lockers.  
  
"Too short? Too by-the-book?"  
  
"Too sane. I like my men a little over the edge."  
  
"I'm not sure whether to say 'thank you' or 'ouch'."  
  
"Besides, I think there's something going on between him and Krick."  
  
"With his partner?"  
  
"Uh huh. Haven't you seen the way they look at each other, Mulder? All those furtive glances. And haven't you noticed that when they speak to one another, it's like no one else is in the room? Their attention is focused solely on one another. They're completely in sync with each other. And the tension in the room--it's palpable."  
  
He laughs.  
  
"What's so funny? You can't tell me you don't see it, too."  
  
"Of course I do. Sounds familiar, though, doesn't it, Scully?"  
  
I don't reply immediately. I sit down heavily on the wooden bench as the enormity of his words begins to set in.  
  
"Scully? You still there?"  
  
"My God, Mulder, have I really just described us? Our relationship during our partnership?"  
  
"Well. . . ."  
  
"Were we really *that* obvious? And here I thought I was hiding my feelings so well."  
  
"It was only a matter of time before you could no longer resist my manly charms."  
  
"Oh, is that what you call all those lewd comments and suggestive remarks you were always making?"  
  
"You loved it, Scully, and you know it."  
  
"You're lucky I didn't sue you for sexual harassment, the way you were always invading my personal space."  
  
"You think I never noticed the way you'd shiver, almost imperceptibly, when I touched the small of your back? Hell, Scully, I could melt you with a single look. Or evaporate you, just by putting on my glasses."  
  
Is that so? Well, two can play at this game. "Cuts both ways, Mulder. If I wanted your undivided attention, all I had to do was cross my arms and quirk my eyebrow. And if I really wanted to up the ante, I'd dart my tongue out, lick the corner of my mouth. Don't think I never noticed how that made you squirm."  
  
"Hey Scully . . . ?"  
  
"Scrubs, Mulder. Powder blue scrubs."  
  
He chuckles. "That's not what I was gonna ask you."  
  
"Well, what then?"  
  
"When did you know?"  
  
"Know what?" I ask, not sure what he's driving at.  
  
"*Know* know. When was it?"  
  
I close my eyes, considering. When exactly was it?  
  
The moment I first walked into his office, all those years ago? There was something there, an awareness that we both felt, an electricity that sparked between us. It ignited periodically during that first case: When I came to him scared to death one night in his hotel room and dropped my robe. When he told me for the first time about his sister's abduction, about his search for the Truth. When we laughed and howled like two teenagers in an Oregon cemetery on a rainy night. There was definitely an underlying current, even back then. But that wasn't when I knew. No, it was much too soon for that.  
  
Was it when we were trapped in that Arctic laboratory? When, despite the newness of our working relationship, we wanted desperately to trust one another? When I went to him, while he was locked in that storage closet, professing my loyalty to him, to our partnership? When I could barely control the trembling in my hands at the prospect of touching his bare flesh? When I first felt the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, the hardness of the muscles of his neck and back? When I bared my own neck to him--Lord, it might as well have been my entire body, my soul--and he oh-so-gently ran his strong hands down my sensitized flesh with the tenderness of a new lover's careful exploration? I think it was then that I became acutely aware of the tension, the underlying sexual current, that flowed between us, like something alive. But I didn't know yet.  
  
Was it when his old flame, Phoebe Green, suddenly resurfaced from whatever dark place it is she crawls into at night? When she walked back into his life, with her mind games and her deceit, using him to further her own career? Seeing the way she reduced him to a timid schoolboy, the way he still answered to her beck and call . . . that was the first time I can acutely remember being jealous over him. Seeing them dance together, watching them kiss . . . it made me sick to my stomach. I remember how it initially surprised me, the way he paraded around his hotel room--and me--in those black silk boxers, seemingly unaware and untroubled by his nakedness. And yet, when Phoebe walked into that room, he immediately fastened his robe, tying it tight, as though that layer of terrycloth were another barrier between them, shielding him from her corrupting touch. It was then that I realized that I had something she'd never be able to regain: his trust. Mulder doesn't trust lightly. Which makes his trust all that more precious to obtain. It was then that I realized my feelings for Mulder went further than mere attraction. But I didn't yet know.  
  
When, then?  
  
"Scully. . . ?" he asks, prompting me.  
  
"The Boggs case," I reply.  
  
"Luther Lee Boggs?"  
  
"It was right after my father died. I remember, the day of the funeral, I went into the office. It was the first time I can recall you calling me by my name. You called me 'Dana' and you cupped my cheek in your hand so gently, so lovingly, I thought my heart would melt."  
  
"So it was then?"  
  
"No, not exactly."  
  
"Then when?"  
  
"I remember being out on the dock, looking for Lucas Henry, when I heard the shot ring out. I saw you laying on that peer, blood pooling around your leg. I ran to you, shouted for someone to get help. I saw the pain on your face, and I hurt so badly that it felt like I'd been shot, too. And then I saw your blood on the white cross--the sign that Boggs had prophetized--and my own blood went cold. I wrapped my jacket around you to keep you warm and tried to stop the bleeding until the paramedics could arrive.  
  
"I held your hand for the entire ride to the hospital, talking to you, trying to assure you that you were going to be okay as you faded in and out of consciousness. I remember standing in that emergency room, watching helplessly as they worked on you. I was so afraid, Mulder. We had known one another for less than a year, and still I was so afraid . . . afraid that you were going to die, that I was going to lose you. . . ."  
  
I stop then, feeling the unshed tears constricting the back of my throat, making it difficult to speak.  
  
It takes him several moments to reply. When he does, his voice sounds thick, like cotton. "You- you've never told me about that before, Scully. I never realized. . . . So- so that was when--?"  
  
"No, not then," I reply, trying to regain my composure. "Close, but not just yet. It was while you were in surgery. The doctors had given you little more than a 50/50 chance because of all the blood you had lost. It was then that I went to go see Boggs, to confront him. On the way over to the prison, I worked myself up into quite a rage. I remember storming into his cell, hell-bent on giving him a piece of my mind. At that moment, I had never hated anyone as much as I did Boggs. I was sure that he and Lucas Henry had set up the whole thing to get revenge on you for putting him away. I wanted him to pay for what he had done to you. God help me, I wanted him dead. And I told him as much. I don't remember exactly what I said--it all seemed to just come pouring out of me. But what I do remember is the way that my voice caught. I wanted so much to sound ferocious, to be intimidating as hell. But my goddammed voice wavered."  
  
I pause, take a shaky breath, the fear and the anger and the anxiety of that case washing over me. I have to remind myself that it was a long time ago. That Mulder is alive and well. That he's safe, and in one piece, on the other end of this line.  
  
"Scully. . . ."  
  
Oh God. How does he know exactly what I need? How does he know when the mere sound of his voice speaking my name is just the reassurance I need right now?  
  
I close my eyes, and a tear escapes, tracks slowly down my cheek.  
  
"That's when I knew, Mulder. That's when I knew."  
  
I hear the bang of the locker room door, the sound of approaching footsteps. I look at my watch, realize how long we've been on the phone.  
  
"Shit," I mutter, scrubbing at my face with the back of my hand. "Hey, Mulder, it's getting late, and I should really get started on that autopsy."  
  
"Yeah, you don't wanna keep the guy waiting."  
  
I grin. He's always been able to do that--bring a smile to my face. Only now, I don't try to hide it anymore.  
  
"I'll call you later, okay?"  
  
"Okay. Have fun slicing and dicing."  
  
I shut off the phone, shove it back in my coat pocket, and slam the locker door closed before making my way to the morgue to get down to business.  
  
  
End Part 2  
  
  
**** 


	3. Truly Madly Deeply Part 3

Title: Truly Madly Deeply 3/5  
Author: Somogyi  
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com  
Category: SRA  
Rating: R for language, adult situations  
Spoilers: Through Season Six  
Keywords: MSR, MS Married  
  
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Truly Madly Deeply  
by Somogyi  
somogyi02@yahoo.com  
  
  
Part 3  
  
  
Funny thing about autopsies . . . they always make me hungry. Ever since med school, gross anatomy every morning my first semester from nine to noon, cutting up corpses has always left me famished. It's nothing I've ever given serious consideration. Not something I've ever pondered deeply. Just an observation, another fact I file away in the back of my brain. A little personal secret.  
  
God forbid I ever told Mulder this . . . he'd never let me live it down. It'd be cannibal jokes till the cows come home.  
  
Cows.  
  
Mmm, a nice juicy cheeseburger sure sounds good right about now.  
  
Hmm, I wonder if necropsies give veterinarians a hankering for steak and pork chops?  
  
Lord help me, I'm delirious. I've been in this lab far too long.  
  
I pull off my gloves and remove my protective goggles, heading for the sink to wash up. I scrub the powder and sweat from my hands, and any lingering smell of death. As I dry my hands, I catch the glint of the overhead light reflecting off of the gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand. I can't help but stare at the ring.  
  
It's been so long since I've done that. In the beginning, I would stop and look at it, turning my wrist this way and that, many times throughout the day. It was the newness of it, I guess. Now, though, I suppose I've become accustomed to it.  
  
It's a simple ring. I insisted on that. I've never been one for jewelry, aside from the small gold cross my mother gave me as a child. I told Mulder I had never really worn a ring before, and I didn't want anything large or gaudy. We went together to pick them out. He teased me relentlessly, having the saleswoman show us some of the widest, heaviest, jewel-adorned, garish rings I've ever seen. Of course, I reminded him that whatever style we picked we both had to wear. That sure shut him up fast.  
  
It didn't take us long to agree on two plain, gold bands. He insisted on getting them engraved, though. Our initials and our wedding date. Simple, yet perfect.  
  
As I stare down at my hand, I remember the only other time I wore such a ring--on the same finger, no less. It was considerably larger, heavier, clunkier. That's what I get for letting Mulder pick it out. That, and the names. Rob and Laura Petrie.  
  
I can't help but laugh at the memory. To investigate the deaths of several couples who lived in the same suburban community, Mulder and I went undercover as new homeowners. As usual, Mulder took on his new role with verve. He took every opportunity to play it up, overdoing it with the pet names, the possessive touches that screamed "mine." And, my God, the level of flirtation! I really had to pour on the reticence, feigning disinterest, almost disgust, at his constant streams of innuendo. Because I knew that if I were to give even a hint that I liked it, that it was turning me on, he would have kicked it up a notch. And where would that have left us?  
  
Spooned together on the bed, that's where. And on the kitchen floor. And the living room couch. And in the bathroom shower. And on his desk, twenty minutes before a meeting with Skinner--  
  
That memory still makes me flush. The thought of getting caught, of being found out, made the rush incredible. It was one of the few times we mixed business with pleasure. We both agreed to keep work at the office, and leave personal interactions for other, more private places. After he indulged me my fantasy of making love in a morgue, that is. He always said the experience creeped him out, but I could tell that it actually turned him on. I guess it's safe to say that just like our work on the X-Files, our love life has been nothing if not uneventful.  
  
With a futile sigh, I grab the cassette tape of my autopsy narration. I'll have to transcribe that tonight. Right now, though, I need to get cleaned up and grab something to eat.  
  
I decide to forestall a shower in the locker room for a nice warm bubble bath in my hotel room. I change quickly, gather my things. On my way out to the parking lot, I pull out my cell to call Mulder. All I get is a recording that his phone is not in service. Why would he shut it off? I try his office number, but I get his voicemail.  
  
"Hey, Mulder, it's me. I just finished up the autopsy. I'm on my way back to the hotel. Give me a call when you get a chance."  
  
Luckily, the traffic's not too bad, and I'm back in my room in less than a half hour. I'm almost immediately out of my coat and shoes, and I start shedding my suit on the way to the bathroom. I draw the bath, adding a liberal dose of bubble bath, and return to the main room while the tub fills.  
  
I debate about ordering room service, but decide against it. For some reason, I feel like going out, to a real restaurant. No burger for me tonight.  
  
I'm about to retreat to the bathroom when something on the bedspread catches my eye. Walking closer, I see that it's a single long-stemmed yellow rose.  
  
This is new. He's never done this when I've been away before. He must have called the hotel, arranged it with the manager or housekeeping. I lift the flower to my nose, savor its fragrant aroma.  
  
I swear my feet don't touch the ground as I float back into the bathroom.  
  
How did I ever get so lucky? I wonder as I lay back in the tub, immersing myself in a warm cocoon of water and bubbles. On the phone earlier, I told him when *I knew*. But when exactly did it *happen*?  
  
There came a point when I decided enough was enough. I'd fought my desires, my inclinations, for far too long. If loving Mulder felt so right, then I had to at least give it a try. And if it were meant to be, it would work out. So I steeled my nerve, and went for it.  
  
I made my own overtures, matched Mulder's flirtation with my own suggestive remarks. And for a while, it was incredible.  
  
We hadn't yet taken that next step, but our partnership--our friendship--had never been stronger. Everything was going perfectly.  
  
Until the Peter Andraven case. That damned Andraven case. It brought us together, but at the same time it nearly drove us apart. We put our all into that case, and by all accounts, we should have had that bastard dead to rights. But money and power have often outspun the wheels of justice. And Peter Andraven walked.  
  
Mulder nearly lost it. He practically accosted Andraven after the hearing. Luckily, he got a hold of himself, and walked away. But this case gnawed at him, consumed him. He wouldn't let it go. He harassed Andraven to no end, both on and off duty. Pressure came down from above, and Skinner had to order Mulder to stay away from Andraven.  
  
After that, Mulder retreated into himself. He locked me out, pushed me away, no matter how hard I tried to help him.  
  
In a last-ditch effort, I tried to get him to go with me to this Italian restaurant we had been wanting to try for a long time. I wasn't expecting him to accept, but he did. We were to meet later that night at the restaurant, Tufano's.  
  
I sat there waiting for him for well over an hour. I was stewing. I was sure he'd stood me up. I was ready to kill him. Worse still, I was ready to give up on him, on us. To this day, I thank God that I decided to give him five more minutes. I was about to leave the restaurant when the maitre'd told me I had a phone call.  
  
It was Mulder. He told me to meet him at the airport. He couldn't say more over the phone. There was no time anyway, the flight was going to leave soon. But he promised to explain everything to me on the way to New York.  
  
Well, an hour of waiting and a couple of martinis under my belt, and I wasn't ready to let him off the hook quite so easily. Why should I? I asked him. Why should I follow him on some sort of wild goose chase without even knowing what it was about?  
  
I'll never forget what he said to me. The memory still gives me goosebumps.  
  
"Trust me, Scully."  
  
Those few words shot to my very core. They sobered me in an instant. I realized then that for the first time in a very long while, Mulder chose to contact me before jaunting off to God-knows-where without so much as a "see you later." Nine times out of ten, he would've ditched me, left me high and dry, and explained himself later, after the fact. But this time, he called first. He asked me to go with him.  
  
Who was I to doubt this new and improved Fox Mulder? Especially one who asked me for only one thing. That which he values above all else: belief. In him. In us. In that what we're doing is right.  
  
I do, Mulder. I trust you. Wholly. Implicitly. As no other.  
  
I didn't tell him that. Instead, I told him that I was on my way.  
  
It was a damned good thing for him that I decided to go with him. As it turned out, Peter Andraven was murdered that night, and Mulder was the prime suspect. The real killer had doctored some sort of video surveillance tape, to make it look like Mulder had been there, at the crime scene, the night it happened. I turned out to be his alibi, since he never left my sight that night.  
  
During the flight to New York, Mulder explained that for the past few months he had a new informant, Marita Covarrubias, the Special Representative to the Secretary General of the United Nations. He seemed surprised when I told him I had suspected as much. I had figured it out weeks earlier, in fact. That impressed him, and I allowed myself to take pride in that.  
  
Marita had contacted Mulder shortly before he called me to say she had evidence about Andraven's involvement in biological weapons. She said she needed to meet Mulder in person as soon as possible, before the evidence was destroyed. She had also told him not to divulge this information to another soul.  
  
"Why did you tell me?" I asked him. It wasn't like Mulder to disregard the wishes of an informant so readily, without good reason. Turns out he had a damned good reason.  
  
"Because you're my partner, Scully," he'd said, his eyes meeting mine and holding them. "We're in this together."  
  
At that moment, I would have walked through the very fires of hell for him. And he knew it, too. That night, something changed between us. I think we both realized that afterwards, things would never be the same for us. The idea both excited me and scared me to death.  
  
We met with Marita in her apartment. Judging from her slinky attire, she had an ulterior motive for inviting my partner over, but luckily my presence all but squashed those intentions. She showed us blueprints to a building that was formerly owned by Andraven Laboratories. She said there were clandestine experiments going on there, and that if we didn't get in there within the next few hours, our last chance of incriminating Andraven would go up in flames.  
  
While staking out the building, we met up with a couple of NYPD detectives. We decided to team up, and agreed to infiltrate the building together. Mulder and I managed to get some samples from a lab, getting shot at and nearly torched in the process. At one point, if I hadn't caught sight of a moving shadow and yanked Mulder to the ground, he'd probably have ended up with another bullet wound to add to his collection of battle scars.  
  
Fortunately, all four of us made it out unscathed. The building wasn't so lucky. But we had managed to get the samples out in one piece. And that evidence proved damning enough to shut down what remained of Andraven's corporation.  
  
I'm convinced that our success on that case is what paved the road for our promotions. As well as our subsequent relationship. We got caught up in work over the next couple of weeks, filing the reports, analyzing the data, giving testimony. But we finally made it to Tufano's--together--to celebrate. It figures that we couldn't even have a proper celebration.  
  
Damn Mulder for bringing his cell phone with him. Skinner called us, sounding unduly agitated, even for him. Craig Robinson, an insanely wealthy bureaucrat who owned Niihau, a small island in the Hawaiian archipelago, had called in a favor with the federal government. His son and a native girl had been killed under mysterious circumstances. Local inhabitants claimed it was the work of an angry spirit. That made it just up our alley. And it seemed our recently-established successful reputation caused Robinson to request our services. So Skinner sent us out there--that very night--to look into matters and determine what had killed those kids.  
  
At first I was upset that our romantic evening had been ruined. But then I got to thinking . . . Hawaii, beaches, sunshine, Mulder in a bathing suit. . . . Okay, I could deal with this, perhaps even enjoy it. Little did I know. . . .  
  
Mulder being Mulder, he believed the kids to be victims of an enraged cave-spirit. I, on the other hand, thought the cause of death to be of a more earthly origin. While we were checking out the cave where the kids died, I was injured. I remember waking up in the hospital the next day with the mother of all headaches. Mulder was beside me, talking to me. He didn't realize that I'd regained consciousness right away, and I decided to bide my time, listen to what it was he had to say. He was grasping my hand tightly, desperately. And he was baring his heart to me.  
  
I only remember bits and pieces now, but the general gist was that he'd been beside himself with worry for me. Afraid that he had lost me once again. The difference was that this time, he vowed not to waste another chance. He said that if I were to come back to him, he wasn't going to let another moment go to waste. He was going to tell me how he really felt--better yet, he was going to show me.  
  
"I can' wait, Mul'er," I told him, my voice sounding like sandpaper.  
  
I don't think I will ever forget the look on his face for as long as I live. Relief mixed with thankfulness along with what could only be deep and abiding love.  
  
He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my palm, and each finger in turn. Then he reached over and kissed my forehead, my cheek. My nose and chin.  
  
"Tha' the bes' you can do?" I asked, somehow managing to quirk an eyebrow.  
  
He leaned in again, and I closed my eyes, readying myself for the moment I had dreamed about for so long. I felt his breath on my lips. I inclined my head up, ever so slightly.  
  
And then he kissed me.  
  
On my goddammed eyebrow, the bastard! I swear to God, if I'd had the strength, I would've decked him.  
  
I opened my mouth to castigate him, had half his name out, when he finally kissed me. This time, he did it right.  
  
Let me tell you, that kiss was worth the wait. Six years plus of anticipation, of longing, of desire, of trust, of love. His soul and mine, mingling together at last. It was like finding a little piece of heaven, right here on earth.  
  
That was when it happened.  
  
  
End Part 3  
  
  
**** 


	4. Truly Madly Deeply Part 4

Title: Truly Madly Deeply 4/5  
Author: Somogyi  
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com  
Category: SRA  
Rating: R for language, adult situations  
Spoilers: Through Season Six  
Keywords: MSR, MS Married  
  
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Truly Madly Deeply  
by Somogyi  
somogyi02@yahoo.com  
  
  
Part 4  
  
  
After my bath, I dress in a v-necked sweater, fitted skirt, and heels. For some reason, I spend a little more time on my hair, put on a little extra make-up, an additional dab of perfume. I'm not sure why. I guess I figure that if I'm going out, I might as well make the most of it.  
  
Before I leave, I try Mulder again. His cell's still out of service. Voice mail at the office number, answering machine at home.  
  
Where the hell could he be? An emergency meeting perhaps? Summoned suddenly into the field? I debate about calling Skinner.  
  
*Oh, for God's sake, Dana, stop jumping to conclusions! Ever since you've been married, he's gotten better about this. If something serious comes up, he'll call you.* Heck, when he learned I wasn't going to make it home tonight he could've just decided to go hang out with the Gunmen for the evening.  
  
No matter how much I try to assure myself that everything's fine, I can't completely ignore a tiny nagging sensation in the back of my mind. My Mulder Alert. Something's up, I'm almost sure of it. I'll find out soon enough, I suppose.  
  
I stop by the front desk on my way out. I ask the manager if he can recommend a good restaurant.  
  
"What are you in the mood for?" he asks.  
  
I consider. "Italian."  
  
His nods his head knowingly. "I know just the place. . . ."  
  
Twenty minutes later, I'm seated at the bar, waiting for a table.  
  
"What can I get you?" the bartender asks me.  
  
"Red wine," I reply, reaching for my wallet to pay for the drink.  
  
"No need," the bartender replies, waving his hand as he places the long-stemmed glass in front of me.  
  
"I don't understand. . . ."  
  
"Compliments of the gentleman at the corner table," he explains.  
  
"What gentleman?"  
  
He points across the room.  
  
I turn around, trying to locate the person to whom he's referring. I can barely make out what appears to be a man in a suit; his head is largely obscured by a pillar and potted fern that are situated directly in my line of view.  
  
"He also requested that you join him for dinner."  
  
"Really?" I must admit, I'm a bit intrigued. Flattered even. I actually consider the invitation. Common sense, however, tells me I should go express my gratitude to this stranger for his generous offer, but politely decline.  
  
I thank the bartender before picking up my drink and making my way over to the corner table. As I approach, I try to get a better look at the man, but the servers scurrying about to and fro continuously block my view. By the time I arrive at the table, I find it empty. I look around me, but there's no trace of him.  
  
It's then that I see it: a folded note on one of the place settings.  
  
I carefully put down my wine, and pick up the paper. I'm surprised to see that my hands are trembling ever so slightly, nervousness mixed with anticipation.  
  
Two words, in that familiar block lettering I'd recognize anywhere:  
  
"JUST BECAUSE"  
  
"Oh, Mulder," I murmur, bringing the note to my heart. I cherish these love letters of his, these little glimpses into his soul. But they in no way compare to the real McCoy. "I wish you were here."  
  
I sense someone approach me from behind. I look down just as an arm snakes around my shoulders and a man's hand presents me with a long-stemmed red rose.  
  
"Ask and ye shall receive, m'lady," says a voice in my ear. His voice.  
  
But how can that be?  
  
If this is a dream, I don't think I want to wake up.  
  
I turn around, and gaze up into the loving face of my husband.  
  
My husband. No matter how many times I say or think it, it still sounds so strange. He has been so many things to me: Partner. Friend. Confidant. Lover. Husband. Soulmate. But today, like tomorrow, like yesterday, he'll be Mulder. My Mulder. Just like I'll forever be his Scully.  
  
"Mulder, what are you doing here?"  
  
"Giving you a small token of my affection," he replies, placing the rose in my hand.  
  
"I can see that. But aren't you supposed to be in D.C.? How did you manage to clear this trip with Skinner?"  
  
"Well, with the additional victim and Laster still at large, I managed to convince him that my supervision and special expertise were needed for the investigation."  
  
"And that worked?"  
  
"Well, then I told him I didn't want to sleep alone another night."  
  
"Mulder! You didn't!"  
  
"Skinner generously offered to come by and spend the night, but I told him he wasn't my type. Besides, he probably snores."  
  
"You're incorrigible, you know that! Abusing your position of power for personal gain."  
  
"I had a legitimate reason, Scully."  
  
"Oh yeah? What's that?"  
  
"Well, you see, when you called to say you weren't going to be making it home tonight after all, I was terribly disappointed." His voice lowers and he bends toward me, his intent obvious. "Because I missed you."  
  
"Terribly?" My question goes unanswered as he claims my mouth with his own. My arms go 'round his neck and he pulls me close, as though trying to draw my body into his.  
  
When we finally pull apart, we're both gasping for breath. I lick my lips, savoring the flavor of him that remains on my mouth. He tastes salty.  
  
It used to annoy me, Mulder's sunflower seed habit. Throughout our partnership, wherever we went, whatever we were doing, he always seemed to be munching on those damned seeds. Incessant cracking, crunching, shells everywhere--in his pockets, on the car seats, in the files. But I've since come to appreciate his addiction. It seems there are many benefits to his oral fixation. For one, it keeps his tongue in shape. Which makes him an incredible kisser. Not to mention several other talents.  
  
"Terribly," he murmurs, reaching to caress my cheek.  
  
I look up at him, and he smiles that big, beautiful smile that lights his entire face. It fills me with a delicious warmth that starts deep in my core and spreads, all the way from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.  
  
His golden-green eyes, soft and luminous, take me in, devour me whole. They penetrate me deeply, as though they can see all the way into my heart, my very soul.  
  
This man has such power over me. He can deconstruct me with a single glance. I feel the desire growing inside of me, a yearning to join our bodies just as our souls have been bound. Thoughts of an Italian meal fall to the wayside, one hunger being replaced by another, more primal appetite.  
  
"Mulder--"  
  
"Wanna blow this joint? Skip dinner and go right to dessert?"  
  
"You read my mind."  
  
He holds out his hand. I place my hand in his, and our fingers intertwine.  
  
"How far is your hotel?" he asks as he leads us toward the door.  
  
"With or without speeding?"  
  
  
End Part 4  
  
  
**** 


	5. Truly Madly Deeply Part 5

Title: Truly Madly Deeply 5/5  
Author: Somogyi  
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com  
Category: SRA  
Rating: R for language, adult situations  
Spoilers: Through Season Six  
Keywords: MSR, MS Married  
  
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Truly Madly Deeply  
by Somogyi  
somogyi02@yahoo.com  
  
  
Part 5  
  
  
We manage to restrain ourselves until we get into the hotel elevator. The moment the doors close and we find ourselves alone, however, I find I can no longer hold myself back. I reach up, cradling his head in my hands, and pull his face toward mine.  
  
The elevator bings and opens on my floor. Thank God no one's waiting for it. Somehow, we manage to make it into the corridor and to the door of my room. I start rummaging through my coat for the keycard. I feel his hands on my shoulders. He spins me around, pins me against the door with his body. His lips blaze a trail of fiery kisses down my jaw and neck. I swear, if I can't find that damned card in the next minute, I'm going to have him take me right here, right now.  
  
I gasp as his mouth finds the swell of my breast just as my hand finally locates the card.  
  
I manage to reach behind us and swipe it through. With a click, the door unlocks, and I turn the handle. We all but fall into the room.  
  
We cross the threshold, and one of us kicks the door closed behind us. Various items of clothing fall to the floor, leaving a fabric trail toward the bed. We fall to the mattress as one, arms and legs intertwined. I start to pull myself back up the bed toward the pillows to give us more room.  
  
Something sharp pricks my back and I cry out.  
  
"What is it?" he asks, concern filling his voice, his face.  
  
I arch my back, reach behind me to remove the object in question. It's the yellow rose I found in my room earlier that evening.  
  
"Oh, shit," he mutters as I toss the flower onto the nightstand. "Scully, I'm so sorry."  
  
"It's not your fault. I'm the one who left it there."  
  
"Here, turn over. Let me take a look."  
  
"Mulder, it's nothing. Don't worry about--"  
  
"Go on, turn over," he insists, hands gently but firmly grasping my hips and helping me flip over onto my stomach. He straddles my thighs, moving his head closer to get a better look.  
  
"Well?" I ask, my cheek resting on the pillows.  
  
"It drew blood. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."  
  
Expecting him to get up in search of a first aid kit and antibiotics, I'm about to tell him not to bother. But then I feel his tongue, warm and wet, gently glide across my back, followed by his lips, placing a soft kiss over the tiny wound.  
  
A shiver runs through me in response to this new sensation. "You're not going to transform into a bat and fly away on me, are you, Mulder?"  
  
"Wasn't planning on it. Not right now, anyway. Oh, look, I must've missed a drop."  
  
Oh God. I can't help but moan as he repeats the motions, his tongue tracing a lazy circle on my shoulder blade.  
  
"How's that feel?"  
  
"Heavenly."  
  
"Did the rose get you any other place, Scully? Any other wounds I need to know about?"  
  
"Here," I murmur, reaching for the flower. "If it didn't, we can make some."  
  
"Never realized you were into S and M." He laughs as he takes it from me. "Hey, Scully?" He softly glides the rose petals lightly down my spine, and I can't help but shiver.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Do you know what day it is?" He moves the petals to the small of my back, our own personal erogenous zone.  
  
For some reason, it seems difficult to keep a clear thought. "Uhm .. . Thursday, I think."  
  
He uses the flower to softly trace the circle of my tattoo. The ouroboros, a snake swallowing its own tail. No end, no beginning. Like I feel about Mulder and me right now: I don't know where he ends and I start.  
  
"Yeah, I know it's Thursday. What I meant is do you know what *date* it is?"  
  
"Mulder, do we really . . . mmm . . . have to play . . . nnnhh . .. twenty questions right now?"  
  
He continues on down my body, the gossamer-light touches of the petal now gliding over my bottom, toward the back of my thighs.  
  
"Seriously, Scully, do you know the date?"  
  
I rack my brain, trying to remember. I wrote it on my damned report that morning, spoke it into the tape recorder during my autopsy.  
  
He's down past my calves, approaching my ankles.  
  
"The sixth," I gasp. "The sixth of March."  
  
"That's right," he says, tickling the bottom of my feet, making me squirm. "March sixth."  
  
The way he says the words, lingering on them, I realize that this date holds some sort of importance. But I'll be damned if I can think of what it is.  
  
He begins to trace a path back up my other leg, and I let out a low groan. "I don't know, Mulder."  
  
"Don't tell me you don't remember what happened on this day."  
  
"Remember--Oh!--what?"  
  
"I thought guys were supposed to be the ones to forget about these kinds of things." He says it jokingly, trying to make light of my forgetfulness. But I know him too well. There's an undertone of disappointment in his voice.  
  
I turn over, onto my back. "I give up, Mulder. What's so special about today?"  
  
I watch as the smile fades, as his face sinks. "You're serious, Scully? You really don't remember?"  
  
I shake my head. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell." I'm tired of this game. I want us to finish what we've begun. "Now, c'mon, Mulder," I say, reaching for him. "You've flown all the way out here. Let's not waste any more--"  
  
I realize, then, that he's not responding to my touch. He pulls away, sits back. His face is blank. There's no longer any trace of the desire that consumed him a few minutes earlier.  
  
Goddammit, why is he doing this? Things had been so perfect. We were so happy. Why is he ruining this night for me? For us?  
  
"Mulder, I have no clue what this is about. Why don't you just tell me?"  
  
His brow is creased. It's a familiar gesture. He's getting annoyed.  
  
"You should know," he says, his tone biting.  
  
"Mulder, *you* should know that I hate these silly little games. I'm not the one with the goddammed photographic memory! What the hell do you expect from me?"  
  
He's getting out of bed.  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, Mulder!" I try to do what he does, make light of the situation. "Okay, what was it? The day you lost your gun? The first time Skinner gave us a reaming? Oh, I know--it must have been that time you saw a little green man. Oh, but there were so many times. . . ."  
  
"I'm glad you find this so funny. I'm glad I amuse you." He starts pulling on his pants.  
  
"Mulder, what are you doing? Where are you going? Why don't you just come back to bed?"  
  
He doesn't reply this time. Instead, he heads for the nearest exit--the door leading to the balcony.  
  
I don't know what to say anymore. I don't know what it is he wants to hear. "Mulder, I thought you were just making this up. Finding an excuse to celebrate, to make the night more romantic."  
  
I swear, I see him flinch, as though I just dealt him a physical blow.  
  
He really is going to walk away. I'm desperate now, grasping at straws. "Hell, Mulder, you said yourself in the notes: 'Just because'."  
  
He turns back to face me. He stands ramrod straight, hands at his sides and balled into fists. He has the most stricken expression on his face. It's a look of hurt. Of sorrow. Of . . . betrayal.  
  
There's a cold feeling growing, festering deep in the pit of my stomach.  
  
When he speaks, his tone is glacial, unfeeling. "It's our anniversary." Without another word, he turns around and walks outside, slamming the glass door behind him.  
  
Our anniversary? What is he talking about? We weren't married in March. Am I not the only one  
  
whose memory is failing?  
  
"Goddammit!" I sit back against the headboard, sigh in frustration.  
  
If I'm to have any hope of salvaging this night, of repairing the damage my lapse in memory has created, it looks like I'm going to have to figure out this little mystery with which he's presented me.  
  
An anniversary, he says. On March sixth. Some sort of significant event for us. A first. What could it be?  
  
As I try to recall, my eyes wander around the room. I see pieces of our clothing strewn across the floor, on the edge of the bed. A few feet away on the carpet, the red rose lays on top of his undershirt. On the rumbled bedspread beside me sits the yellow rose. I look from one flower to the other and back again.  
  
Everything has a meaning, I realize. When it comes to romance, Mulder is a stickler for details. He likes everything to be perfect. Everything has significance. Two roses. Why did he choose those colors? Why did I receive the yellow first, then the red? And what does it all have to do with March sixth?  
  
I close my eyes, let my mind wander. I try to recall all of the noteworthy events in our lives. Things that we've done. Things that have happened to us. Together. Logic tells me I should start at the beginning--  
  
It hits me then, abruptly, with the sudden clarity of a salvaged soul who has found the light.  
  
"Oh shit!" I mutter, covering my face with my hands.  
  
I find myself flushing, guilt and humiliation filling me.  
  
My Lord, how could I forget? How could I have forgotten such a significant day? Such a momentous occasion, though neither of us knew it at the time. A day that changed both of our lives--both of us--irrevocably. An event that started us on the common path, the shared journey, that has since bound us together.  
  
Oh God, what have I done?  
  
It all makes so much sense now.  
  
He has gone to all this trouble--the notes, the flowers, flying out to Pennsylvania--so that we could spend this special day together, and I didn't even realize why.  
  
Why do I suddenly feel like Judas, guilty of the most heinous of crimes?  
  
I've got to go to him, to tell him I finally remember. I've got to make things right.  
  
I just hope it's not too late.  
  
I scramble to my feet, searching for something to wear. The first thing I find is his dress shirt. I quickly pull it on, fasten some of the buttons. I pick up the flowers and follow him out onto the balcony.  
  
The door slides shut behind me, and I find myself hesitating. I take a moment to look at him, to study his silhouette in the moonlight. His tall, lean form is bent over, hands gripping the railing tightly. He's staring up at the night sky.  
  
If he knows I'm there, he makes no indication.  
  
"Mulder. . . ."  
  
He bows his head, as though in defeat, but still does not acknowledge my presence.  
  
I've hurt him deeply. Unintentionally. But I've wounded him nonetheless. I just hope that as I've healed his injured body in the past, I can now mend his ailing heart.  
  
Why do I falter? Why do I find my confidence failing me?  
  
Because there has never been anything or anyone more important to me than this man, than my love for him.  
  
The thought of losing it--of losing him--is unfathomable.  
  
*So stop wavering, Dana, and go tell him how you feel. Time to take the direct approach. You've got nothing to lose--except him, and therefore yourself.*  
  
With a deep breath, I walk over to stand beside him.  
  
"March sixth, nineteen ninety-two. Shortly after nine a.m. I knocked on your office door in the basement of FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C. You called out 'Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted' as I swung the door open and walked inside. I looked around at the cluttered space, took it all in: the books and magazines, the newspaper clippings adorning the walls, the poster of the UFO with the words 'I Want to Believe.'  
  
"I approached where you sat at the side table, sifting through slides. You turned around to face me, and I swear my heart skipped a beat. I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so goddamned good looking.  
  
"You sat there in your rumpled shirt and loud tie, a stray piece of hair falling onto your forehead, a smug expression on your face. But what got me were the glasses. I've always been a sucker for a man in glasses.  
  
"You shook my hand limply. God, I hate that. Men judge one another on the strength of their handshakes, and yet when they shake a woman's hand, it's like holding a goddammed fish."  
  
I see the corner of his mouth quirk, and this small gesture gives me hope.  
  
"I remember thinking then, wondering, 'He's not going to be one of those, is he?' One of those male chauvinists who's going to try to protect me, to coddle me, who won't let me do my job and pull my own weight.  
  
"I introduced myself, told you I was looking forward to working with you. You replied, 'Oh, really? I was under the impression you were sent here to spy on me.' And you had that smartass, shit-eating grin on your face.  
  
"The whole time, you kept those humdingers coming. While discussing my credentials, you pulled out a copy of my senior thesis, made a remark about my rewriting Einstein. I asked if you had even bothered to read it. 'I did. I liked it. It's just, in my line of work, the laws of physics rarely apply.'  
  
"You turned on the slide projector, asked my opinion on what was to become our first case. You were testing me, of course. Trying to determine the extent of my scientific background, whether I was open to extreme possibilities. That's when things got interesting. A verbal fencing match ensued. You lunged. I parried. We each held our own.  
  
"And then you played your ace-in-the-hole: Voice husky, tone only half-serious, you asked me, 'Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?' I immediately launched into some tirade about the scientific implausibilities of aliens and space travel, and you all but rolled your eyes at me. It was positively infuriating.  
  
"I realized then that this was going to be a challenging assignment, working with you on the X-Files. I was going to have to stay on my toes if I was going to keep up with you, with the fast-paced leaps and bounds of your mind. If I was going to prove your more  . . . eccentric . .. ideas scientifically impossible.  
  
"And then, when I turned to leave, you offered some parting words and shook my hand again. Except this time, you clasped my hand tightly. The grip was firm. I had passed the first test. You found me a worthy partner. I knew, then, that this assignment was going to be different. You saw me as a capable, competent fellow agent. Sure, a little green around the edges. But my mind was sharp, I was quick on my feet, and I was willing to go the extra mile to get the job done. The fact that I was a woman didn't matter--you didn't hold that against me. I knew then that this was going to be an equal partnership--give and take from both sides. Little did I know that our partnership was going to become the single most important relationship in my life."  
  
By now, Mulder has released his death grip on the railing. He's turned to face me, his eyes riveted to my face as I recall the details from our first meeting.  
  
I can see that he's surprised I remember the day with such vivid detail. How could I not? I must have replayed the events of our first encounter over and over in my head at least a dozen times that same night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I'm surprised he does not realize how deeply he affected me from day one. I guess I should've told him sooner.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Mulder," I say, walking closer to him. "I never meant to hurt you. You know I've never been good with dates. But I haven't forgotten the events of that day, or their importance to us, our relationship.  
  
"For me, every day is a celebration of our anniversary. Every day I thank God that you came into my life. First, as a friend--"  
  
I hold out the yellow rose, gently run the petal across his cheek.  
  
"And, later, as my lover, my husband, my other half."  
  
With the other hand, I reach out with the red rose, touch it to his lips, run it down his chin, his neck, his chest.  
  
I trace a path back up the way I came. Only this time, instead of the flower, I use my mouth. I place soft butterfly kisses on his chest, slowly making my way upwards, over his collar bone, onto his neck, his jaw, his chin. I stop mere millimeters from his mouth.  
  
I decide to draw out the anticipation a bit more.  
  
I kiss first one lip, then the other. Then I pull back.  
  
His eyes slowly open. Two pools of rekindled desire, burning brighter than ever.  
  
I've gone this far. Might as well continue the sweet torture.  
  
My tongue darts out to the corner of my mouth, wets my bottom lip.  
  
That seems to push him over the edge. Almost before I realize what's happening, I feel one hand bury itself in the hair on the back of my head, the other on the small of my back. He's pulling me towards him. My body pressed against his, my lips on his. We move backwards, our kisses fervent in their intensity, our movements almost frenzied in their urgency. We stop as my back encounters the cool glass of the balcony door.  
  
I feel his hands on my waist, lifting me. I reach for him, arms snaking around his neck, legs wrapping around his hips. Somehow, he manages to find the handle to slide open the door, and he carries me inside, over to the bed.  
  
He starts to kneel on the edge of the bed. I lay back, still holding him, pulling him down with me. I reach down, unfasten the zipper of his pants, and he wriggles out of them. As his nimble fingers undo the buttons of the shirt I wear, one by one, his gaze fixes on my face.  
  
He looks down at me, and I see his love for me reflected in his eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I could lose myself there, in the endless depths of his eyes, his soul. Lose myself in my love for him.  
  
I love him. More than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life. More than I ever thought it possible to love another person.  
  
I love him more with every breath I take.  
  
Truly madly deeply.  
  
"Happy Anniversary, Mulder," I murmur, encircling his neck and lifting my head toward his.  
  
"Happy Anniversary, Scully," he replies, meeting me halfway.  
  
  
Finis  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Truly Madly Deeply  
by Savage Garden  
  
  
I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish I'll be your fantasy.  
I'll be your hope, I'll be your love be everything that you need.  
I love you more with every breath truly madly deeply do...  
I will be strong I will be faithful 'cos I'm counting on A new beginning.  
A reason for living. A deeper meaning.  
  
I want to stand with you on a mountain.  
I want to bathe with you in the sea.  
I want to lay like this forever.  
Until the sky falls down on me...  
  
And when the stars are shining brightly in the velvet sky,  
I'll make a wish send it to heaven then make you want to cry...  
The tears of joy for all the pleasure and the certainty.  
That we're surrounded by the comfort and protection of...  
The highest power. In lonely hours. The tears devour you...  
  
I want to stand with you on a mountain,  
I want to bathe with you in the sea.  
I want to lay like this forever,  
Until the sky falls down on me...  
  
(BRIDGE)  
  
Oh can't you see it baby?  
You don't have to close your eyes 'cos it's standing right before you.  
All that you need will surely come...  
  
I'll be your dream I'll be your wish I'll be your fantasy.  
I'll be your hope I'll be your love be everything that you need.  
I'll love you more with every breath truly madly deeply do...  
  
(CHORUS)  
  
[repeat until fade]  
  
I want to stand with you on a mountain... 


End file.
